


To Taste

by magpiespirit



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: And I Do Mean Food Porn In Its Purest Form, And Strawberry Shortcake, Asexual Relationship, Cutting of Meat, Detailed Descriptions of Food Preparation, Did I Mention Food Porn?, Established Relationship, Food Porn, Hands, I Wrote This Instead of Eating, It's Meat Pie, Kneading of Dough, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Nonsexual Eroticism, One Cute Kiss, forearms, movement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 03:21:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19803685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magpiespirit/pseuds/magpiespirit
Summary: Aziraphale cooks, but not for himself. Crowley hungers, but not for food.





	To Taste

**Author's Note:**

> I'm hungry and poor and food porn helps me not be sad about it. I decided to share my strange hobby and my obscene love for food preparation because this _may_ be a place that's receptive to it, unlike my social circle. Yes, I'm garbage, thanks.

Aziraphale doesn’t actually have a kitchen, per se, but Crowley does — the food in his refrigerator never goes bad, so he rarely has to go _shopping —_ so they’ve chosen to have their meal at his flat. It’s nice, just staying in. Going out is nice too, of course, but other people can get so tiresome. Mid-class restaurants, especially, are full of evil, from people who don’t tip their servers to people who don’t treat their dates well. Aziraphale takes every opportunity he sees to brighten up someone’s day or intervene in a truly bad time — Heaven sees both of those as _frivolous miracles,_ Crowley sees the first one as reprehensibly boring, but being free agents means Aziraphale can do anything he likes, so long as it doesn’t draw too much attention. Crowley mostly entertains himself by watching Aziraphale eat, which is always a secondhand enjoyment, and causing occasional chaos, which is always a firsthand joy.

Still — this is a good change of pace.

He’s assumed they’ll have something easy and quick like usual, but Aziraphale keeps getting more ingredients out. Butter (frozen, probably miraculously), flour, sugar, salt, _steak, mushrooms..._ things Crowley had forgotten were even in his kitchen. Who keeps lard anymore? Apparently he does, or Aziraphale managed to learn how to summon objects which aren’t directly into his sight like some knock-off fantasy show. 

_(Cooking with Magic, featuring Aziraphale the Summoner,_ and perhaps Crowley needs to _stop.)_

“Haven’t done this in a while,” the angel admits, looking at his collection of ingredients and kitchen tools on Crowley’s miraculously-expanded island with a critical eye, “but it’s not the kind of thing one forgets. It’s a very physical endeavor. Muscle memory, focus in movement, that sort of thing. You know.”

No, Crowley doesn’t know. The only physical thing he cares about, really, is napping. Well, that and driving, but if he’s honest with himself, he’s never been very good at that one. He hadn’t thought Aziraphale would care about that sort of thing, either, but that thought dries up on a heat rock as the angel removes his waistcoat and places it atop the stool that holds his jacket, rolls his shirt sleeves up to his elbows, and begins to wash his hands in the sink. It seems silly to do so; he could just wish away any dirt, or however angelic miracles work, but Aziraphale is the fastidious sort, and anyway, Crowley finds himself fascinated by the subtle flex of those deceptively soft forearms as those equally soft hands squeeze soap between them. It’s been _centuries_ since Crowley saw his angel’s arms. It’s easy to forget that if he wanted, Aziraphale could probably throw a man across the room, because unless the situation were particularly dire, he _wouldn’t._ Not even if he were being threatened.

He rubs his hands together under the trickle of water, neatly scrubbing each part: the palms, the fingers, the backs, even his wrists, until there are no more bubbles. His forearm flexes again as he turns off the faucet, and _again_ as he dries his hands on a clean dish towel. Crowley thinks, vaguely, that he should look ridiculous in his bowtie and braces, and he does, but he doesn’t, really.

The kitchen implements, some of which look more like torture implements than anything else, seem to draw Aziraphale next. He pulls a few of the knives out of the block, surveys them, and puts them back in again, until he comes across one that looks the same as another one but is apparently different.

“Oh, a gyuto! How delightful,” Aziraphale says, handling it with the delicate care of — well, someone about to use a good knife to cut something that needs cutting, Crowley supposes. “When did you last wash these?”

“Er...never,” he replies, distracted by the glint of light off the blade. It’s almost perfectly timed to the glint in Aziraphale’s eyes. Delightful, indeed. “...Never used anything in here except what we’ve used before.”

As though Crowley’s suggested they use the knife to kill a baby, Aziraphale makes an annoyed face and murmurs, “Oh, dear Lord,” and carries the supplies to the sink, because of course he does. Crowley is subjected to another round of water and soap working its way into the crevices of the angel’s hands. Up and down goes the dish cloth along each blade, and then around and around on the pie crust thing. More implements follow, and Crowley’s eyes stay on the hypnotic movement of Aziraphale’s glistening hands.

Another round of thorough drying, this time starting with the inanimate objects. It almost seems _perverse._ This could be handled miraculously. It should be, shouldn’t it? Why the tedious doing-it-all-by-hand-ness?

“You could miracle those clean,” he points out helpfully.

“I could not. That would be cheating, and besides, there’s something to be said for eating human food like humans do,” Aziraphale returns, much to Crowley’s irritation. That entire train of thought makes _zero_ sense, but as long as he doesn’t have to help, he supposes Aziraphale can be as senseless as he likes.

He moves back to the middle of the island, deftly plucks a stick of butter from its resting place, and scrubs it end-first against a flat, sharp surface-y thing. Crowley thinks it’s a cheese grater, but he’s never used it. The frozen butter falls into the bowl in thin, square slices, fairly uniform but not perfect; this is pure corporeal skill, not miraculous effort, except perhaps the continued freeze. It layers haphazardly in the bowl, quick as anything, until both sticks are gone. Crowley moves his gaze from Aziraphale’s hands to his face; he looks so intent on what he’s doing, so focused, that it’s almost embarrassing to look anymore.

When Crowley looks at the food again instead of looking up at the ceiling like a schoolchild who’s just discovered something unpleasant, Aziraphale’s already dumped flour into a container of some kind — where is he _getting_ this stuff? Did it come in that big package of kitchen equipment Crowley forgot to open? — and is shaking it over the butter bowl. It flows down and settles lightly atop the squares, and then Aziraphale measures some salt and sugar with some measuring spoons, which apparently this kitchen _also_ had. The angel makes a pleased noise and begins whisking the ingredients together.

Oh good something-or-other, there’s that flex again. Strong fingers grip the bowl at the front while the hand that holds the whisk goes around and around, breaking up the butter bit by bit and mixing it in with the other ingredients. It looks like another little miracle, but unless all bakers are angels, this is just cooking. Aziraphale sets the bowl down and reaches into it to knuckle a dip in the mixture — _oh —_ before pouring clear, cold water into it. He lays into the mixture again, this time with a fork, and Crowley watches in admiration as it comes together loosely.

Not that the dough is particularly admirable in itself. It’s just that, well, Aziraphale has admirable hands. 

No, it’s definitely the dough. Or something.

Grabbing a handful of flour, Aziraphale lets it sprinkle out of a loose fist until it covers a good space on the marble island, and then he flips the dough out of the bowl. It _slops_ onto the flour and before Crowley can ask if that was a mistake, Aziraphale gathers it with his hands, pressing it together in a movement that is somehow gentle and firm all at once. It’s a slow, sure movement that makes Crowley feel...something, he’s not sure what exactly, but he’s either going to make an obscene noise or chew his blessed lip off, and he’s not sure which would be worse. Aziraphale, seeming not to notice, works the dough like he treasures it, using his palms to caress it before ripping it in two and gently softening the edges of each half.

(Crowley tries not to think too hard about this, or to draw any parallels, while he digs his nails into his palms.)

Aziraphale neatly wraps each half in plastic wrap and pops them into the refrigerator, and Crowley pretends to be very interested in the floor while also eyeing the angel to see whether he’s paying any attention at all to his audience.

It doesn’t seem like he is. Instead, it seems like he’s off in his own happy little world as he wets another dish cloth and cleans up the mess he made with the flour. He even has the gall to _hum_ as he does this, as though he has no idea how he looks. How _does_ he look, anyway? There’s something new here, something dangerous. It feels like a different kind of hum, not in Aziraphale’s throat, but in the back of Crowley’s brain, or maybe deep in his chest. He wants to do something, get up, walk around, even just squirm in his chair a little, but all he can manage is to watch Aziraphale’s clever hands.

A large wooden cutting board takes the place of the flour and a large quantity of meat slops onto it. Crowley chances a glance at Aziraphale’s face, which is happy and warm. It’s a loving expression. He looks like this when he’s restoring books. He looks like this when he thinks Crowley’s not looking. It feels weird to be the one secretly looking at that expression. 

There’s no other way to describe what Aziraphale does with the meat next: he _fondles_ it, and then lightly massages it, and it’s sort of embarrassing to watch. Less embarrassing, though, is the quick and efficient way that he slides the gyuto through the raw beef, using the blade as though it’s just a part of his hand. It’s kind of a beautiful motion that uses his wrist and shoulder and — it’s surprisingly vicious. There’s a pragmatic, almost cheerful violence in the way he cuts, and his smile doesn’t drop at all, and Crowley reminds himself that Aziraphale is soft _by choice._ He’s an angel, a Cherub, designed to guard and fight if necessary. That has to go _somewhere._ Crowley never wondered before where it went; he just took it for granted that Aziraphale wasn’t the aggressive type.

“Oh, dear,” the angel frets. “Not my best work.”

“Looks good to me,” Crowley says, and wishes he hadn’t, as his voice shakes.

“Yes, well. No use trying to fix the edges, or we’ll be here all night.” He drops the squares carefully into some flour, rolling them around to lightly coat them. Several slices of bacon replace the beef on the cutting board and Aziraphale carefully wipes the blade before cutting into the bacon and asking, “Do you remember where we had this?”

Slice. Slice. Crowley has to reply before Aziraphale realizes just _how_ absorbed his demonic companion is in his steady knife-motions. “No.”

“Boston. We were lost. You ate seconds.”

“Oh! I do remember.” Crowley attempts a nonchalant smile, and mostly succeeds by leaning an elbow on the island, covering half of his face with his hand, and resting his chin in his palm. “The nineties, wasn’t it? That old woman in the parka.”

“She had a lovely home,” Aziraphale agrees, separating the slices of bacon with a gentle caress of his fingers. That’s just _not fair._ He’s not even miracling anything, he’s just good at this. He wipes the blade again, sets it aside, pushes the cutting board out of the way, and pulls _another one_ close. The last thing Crowley cooked was toast. It was great toast, _perfect_ toast, even, but it didn’t need all this.

Aziraphale selects another, slightly smaller knife and gets to work chopping vegetables, cupping his hands, working his wrist. By the time he’s done mincing the onions, Crowley feels like he’s chewed through his lower lip entirely; that he doesn’t taste any blood is some kind of subconscious piece of demonic magic, he’s sure. By the time he’s done slicing the mushrooms, Crowley wonders if the half-moon divots in his palms will _ever_ go away without interference. He has to look away when Aziraphale selects another knife and gets to work on the parsley.

Crowley cracks an eye open and sees that Aziraphale is busying himself with the stove and oven now, carrying his cutting boards to the opposite side. It’s probably best if he stays planted in his seat and only watches from behind, but the awful, slightly masochistic side of him is determined to be tortured, apparently; without his own express permission, his feet take him around the island. He lifts himself onto the marble counter, far enough away that Aziraphale will have room to work, but close enough that he won’t have any trouble seeing.

“Get down from there,” the angel says, sounding exasperated.

“It’s my flat,” Crowley shoots back. “I can sit where I like.”

“Not if I move you.”

“Is that a threat?”

Aziraphale’s smile could charm the most timid of fawns. Crowley doesn’t buy it at all. “Just idle musings, dear. Now _get down._ I need the spatulas behind you.”

He does. Only, however, because of the spatulas. Instead, he shoves his hands in his pockets — or at least, as much of his hands as will _fit_ in his pockets — and leans against the counter, just to the right of the hanging jar. Just because he’s being gracious doesn’t mean he has to be _completely_ accommodating.

A bit of lard and the bacon go into a pan together and Crowley is strangely enchanted by the ripple of Aziraphale’s shoulders below the nice blue shirt. It’s odd that he’s not wearing an apron, but Crowley supposes this must be one of the “frivolous miracles” he’s allowed to do now. This is an interesting contrast; before, Aziraphale’s movements were tight, controlled, mostly joint-based, a very upper-body sort of thing. Here at the stove, he uses his whole body in a gentle sway to brown the meat first for an uncountable number of minutes, and then work some kind of magic on the vegetables while the meats are cooling in a glass dish. 

Gavotte is _not_ the only dance Aziraphale knows. It’s just the only one he _knows_ he knows. This is something else. His hips turn along with his shoulder as he nudges the vegetables in the right direction; his thighs guide his stomach and upper torso when he pours them into the dish with the meat. His bend is graceful when he drops raisins, brown sugar, and parsley into the dish. His smile is as brilliant as the flourish in his wrist when he pours a generous helping of stout into the dish as well. The individual pieces come together again, a finale, as he stirs with a wooden spoon, mixing everything thoroughly, and bending to put the dish in the oven is like a bow.

It’s funny how he can be so awkward, but as soon as he’s involved in something he _knows_ how to do, he works right again. Crowley never really showed any signs of the awkwardness he feels being shoved and stretched in a human body, but he’s not put much effort into being _good_ at things, either, so he doesn’t have any big contrasts like that. He wonders if he ought to try being good at more than just tempting people and causing trouble now that he’s free to do anything he wants.

“Well, now,” Aziraphale says, popping up with a bright smile. He leans forward and twists the knob on a kitchen timer. “Time to wash the dishes and then pass some time while we wait.”

“Oh, let me get rid of the mess,” Crowley says disdainfully. “Surely _that_ doesn’t count as cheating.”

Aziraphale nods diagonally, apparently in a reasonable mood. “I don’t see why not. It will save time between first and second washing.”

Because of _course_ he’d wash everything twice.

Crowley rolls his eyes, but twitches his fingers somewhat theatrically, and unmakes the mess on the dishes. With a sly glance sideways, he also unmakes the mess on Aziraphale’s hands, which makes the angel visibly start, look at his hands with wide eyes, and say, “Oh, goodness.”

Mostly, Crowley just wants to be anywhere _but_ the kitchen right now, after that display, but making Aziraphale squirm is always a bonus. Old habits, and all. In a tone that is very deliberately light, he says, “Come on, let’s go sit somewhere more comfortable.”

“The only comfortable place in your home is your couch.”

“Then let’s go there. We’ll still be able to hear the timer.”

What Aziraphale said is true, after a fashion. Crowley actually loves his bed, but Aziraphale _hates_ it. He says the pillows are too soft to use as a back rest when he’s reading, and since he reads while Crowley sleeps, they usually end up on the (extremely comfortable) couch, which just _happened_ to show up in his bedroom shortly after Aziraphale began spending lots of time there.

“...Yes,” Aziraphale says quietly, “I think that’s a good idea. All that cooking was a bit more tiring than I remember.”

“Only because you were being a show-off,” Crowley accuses as they cross the threshold into the bedroom.

Aziraphale lifts one eyebrow as they stop in front of the couch. “It’s only a show if you enjoyed watching. Otherwise it’s _just_ food preparation. Did you like watching?”

That is...unfairly accurate. Noncommittally, Crowley replies, “I always like watching you enjoy yourself, angel, it’s an endless source of entertainment. Now come on, lie down with me.”

After a moment, during which Aziraphale _looks_ at Crowley with an unreadable expression, he nods and lies down on his back, opening his arms. Crowley takes his usual spot face-down with his head on Aziraphale’s chest — it’s comfortable for both of them, since no matter _where_ they end up Crowley tends to drift off and Aziraphale likes to read while he’s running his soft fingers through Crowley’s hair — and sighs, trying to calm himself after all that tension in the kitchen. What a weird experience. At least it’s over now.

Before he can process what’s happening, Aziraphale slides his hand down and grasps Crowley’s tightly, entwining their fingers. No reading this time, then, even though there’s a stack of books _right there._ It feels nice, to be caressed by those deft, clever hands, and Crowley closes his eyes against everything else. Things can just be nice.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you. When the timer goes off, we do have to prepare the pie, let it bake for about ten minutes, and then let it cool, but that’s perfect; it’ll give me time to prepare dessert,” the angel murmurs.

Oh, _brilliant._

* * *

The less said about the way Aziraphale kneads and presses the dough into the pie tin, the better. The roll of his shoulders and the stern purse of his lips makes Crowley decide it’s time to go find a nice drink to pair with their meal, but it’s not because he can’t handle the feelings that kind of gentle, loving force evokes in him. It’s only because they need a drink and don’t have one yet.

If it takes him fifteen minutes to return to the kitchen and the pie is already out of the oven, that’s a coincidence.

* * *

When the meat pie is cooling on the small kitchen table, Aziraphale pulls an entire plastic-wrapped _sponge cake_ out of the refrigerator, and at this point Crowley realizes Aziraphale probably did some preparations some other time, in some other place. He probably brought over his own groceries. Strawberries come next, then heavy cream, then limoncello out of a nearby cupboard, which isn’t something either of them would drink normally, but they’ll probably finish together anyway. 

On a small cutting board, Aziraphale uses a small knife to cut the tops off the strawberries and halve or further slice each one; Crowley carefully looks _anywhere else_ until this is done, for obvious reasons, even if he does sneak peeks here and there before looking away again. The sharp little _snap_ each time the knife hits the cutting board echoes through the room, making Crowley’s head spin. Just a bit. He’s beginning to understand what Aziraphale means when he says that desserts are _compelling._

The angel turns one of the stove burners on low. He then puts ice cubes and water in a large bowl, and sets a smaller bowl inside of that. Into the smaller bowl, he pours measured amounts of heavy cream and sugar, and lets them set there; while they wait, he moves onto a saucepan and combines more sugar and water with a small amount of limoncello. He stirs it briefly — oh _no,_ Crowley thinks — and places it on the burner. While he waits for it to heat up, he assembles a whipping implement. Crowley feels a tightness between his shoulderblades and bites his lip again.

The smell of sugar mingling with the smell of the meat draws Aziraphale back to the stove, and he immediately turns off the stove, turns around, and pours the warm syrup into a clear glass bowl and stirs it again before turning his attention back to the cream. He turns on the beaters—

What is it about his forearms, Crowley wonders, that grabs the attention so? It must be the visual representation of his competence. That’s something Crowley’s always been able to appreciate, even if he hasn’t particularly valued it. Once again, the angel’s fingers grip the bowl tightly, albeit in a different position this time to keep the ice bath from splashing. The device whips the cream quickly; Aziraphale measures the consistency, letting the firm cream drip off the now-silent beaters, while Crowley watches, mouth dry as a desert.

Next, Aziraphale removes the plastic wrap, grabs a serrated knife from the block, and neatly cuts the sponge cake in half, leaving two perfect circles. He sets the top aside and uses a silicone brush to spread the limoncello syrup over the bottom half of the cake, leaving it wet and moist and glistening in the overhead light. He uses his (strong, _perfect)_ right arm to whisk the cream and then drop some of it onto the syrupy half of the sponge cake. With a flat metal icing spatula, he spreads the cream in a thick layer, and then he takes strawberry slices and presses them firmly into that layer of soft cream. His fingertips are soon glossy with strawberry juice and just a _bit_ of cream; Crowley has the strange, absolutely terrible thought that he wants to lick them clean, but he doesn’t voice it, and then he loses his chance when Aziraphale cleans his hands on the towel beside him.

Crowley makes a strangled noise. Aziraphale looks up, a little startled, and asks, “Are you all right?”

“Just fine,” he assures. (He’s really not.) “Nearly fell out of my chair.”

“Stop leaning back in it, and that won’t happen,” says Aziraphale. It’s an old argument that neither of them win, because Crowley never actually falls out of his chair and Aziraphale’s never actually worried about it, or at least, Crowley doesn’t think he has.

Aziraphale goes back to whisking the cream, and spreads another layer atop the strawberries before adding the top of the cake and painting that with the syrup. It glistens even more; it looks absolutely delectable, but Crowley knows it won’t stay looking exactly like that, because he’s had this cake before, albeit at a patisserie in Ginza. It’s one of the only cakes that he’s ever definitively liked out loud, and _oh,_ Aziraphale isn’t just making a meal, he’s making foods that he knows Crowley actually enjoys eating.

His heart melts.

The cream is spread efficiently over the top of the cake, and then Aziraphale spins the cake round to get the sides as well. His intense focus once again makes Crowley bite his lip, and now that he knows there’s a _reason,_ it burns all the way through his chest. The angel packs the rest of the cream into a bag, affixes some kind of metal topper to it, and squeezes gently to make star-tipped dollops and swirls at the edge and middle of the cake. Crowley swallows heavily. Once again, Aziraphale handles the food like he treasures it. That’s the same way he treats his books, and the way he treats Crowley himself: like a precious thing.

Time _stretches_ as he watches, eyes _hungry,_ Aziraphale’s hands pressing strawberry halves into the top of the cake. It’s a gorgeous presentation. It’s so gorgeous as to be almost _obscene._

 _Let me have a taste,_ Crowley could say. He could round the island and take one of Aziraphale’s clever fingers into his mouth, sucking off the cream and strawberry slick. Again, he doesn’t. Again, he watches Aziraphale clean his hands.

“Why don’t you go sit down,” the angel says, “and I’ll bring this in once I have the bowls soaking.”

There’s something in his voice that begs Crowley to comply, so he does. He takes a seat in the cozy nook and watches across the room as Aziraphale grips the counter with such intensity that Crowley half-worries he’ll break it. Whatever he’s thinking, though, doesn’t show on his face when he’s done with the bowls and he bustles to the table. He sets the cake down next to the meat pie and a bowl full of nuts, leaves, beets, berries, and goat cheese.

As Aziraphale passes on his way to the other side of the table, he mentions, “I thought about doing something a little more extravagant on the side, but it’s just a casual meal in, so it’s just the meat pie and the salad. You can have as much of that as you like. Let me know what-”

“Kiss me,” Crowley blurts, basically out of nowhere.

“Of course,” says Aziraphale with that soft, indulgent look on his face that Crowley hates to love, and does so.

This — kissing — is good. It’s _safe._ They’ve done it before, and Crowley knows what to expect. Aziraphale’s mouth is familiar, firm against his, the kind of mouth that sips and savors. A safe mouth, safe lips. Because of the height of Crowley’s chair, he finds himself in the unusual position of having to tilt his head backward to get a proper kiss, but that’s all right; Aziraphale’s right hand comes up to briefly run through the hair on the back of his head while the left one grips the back of Crowley’s chair, and then the kiss is over after a short, playful nip to Crowley’s lower lip. It’s a mouth that nibbles, too. The sharp sensation grounds him; whatever that _feeling_ was, it’s gone now, lost in the wash of familiar love and casual intimacy they’ve shared for just under a year now. 

Aziraphale seats himself across the tiny table and cuts two slices of the pie, the knife carving a shape in that skillful hand. _Oh._ Not quite gone, then, just manageable. The slices (and portions of salad) are neatly plated and Aziraphale slides one of the plates to Crowley before taking the first bite himself, because they are at home, and the angel’s usual rules of etiquette don’t apply here. His eyes flutter closed and he makes a soft, almost obscene noise as he tastes the meat pie. For the first time, Crowley feels like a voyeur, and he doesn’t find it altogether unpleasant.

His mind races for a reasonable explanation. For fuck’s sake, this is _Aziraphale,_ the same angel who will go days at a time researching some esoteric nonsense, which he _knows_ is nonsense, just so he can properly catalogue said nonsense in his chaotic, irritating, incomprehensible-to-everyone-who-isn’t-himself system. Aziraphale, his best friend, his — his _partner,_ lover, whatever you want to call it. He’s not some curiosity, some potential _temptation—_

Right, temptation. Crowley has a sense for those; it was, after all, his job for six thousand years. It’s what he can’t help but do, even now that he’s a free agent. Yes, he thinks, warming to his own theory, that makes sense. Aziraphale has always been tempted by good food; Crowley’s always felt that small pull, but this full-bodied experience was stronger because it was his own food, and...something. It seems wrong, but it makes sense, so he decides it’s the truth. He can watch his angel enjoy eating without feeling like some crazed voyeur because it’s just another day. 

Aziraphale’s voice pulls him out of his musings. “What _are_ you staring at, Crowley?”

“Temptation,” he replies, offering up a gyuto-sharp smile. “I might eat two slices.”

“I’ll make this again, if you like.”

“I would like.”

“Perfect,” says Aziraphale brightly, gesturing grandly at absolutely nothing. “I love spoiling you, and I’ve always said you don’t eat enough-”

As the angel chatters, Crowley tells himself he agreed to another cooking session because he needs to get used to this kind of temptation; immersion therapy, or whatever the humans call it. A few more sessions and it won’t even register anymore. He won’t feel weird about it anymore. He won’t watch, hypnotized, as Aziraphale’s hands shape and caress and force—

(It’s a lie. Demons are particularly good at those.)

**Author's Note:**

> The logical step is for Crowley to return the favor and cook for Aziraphale. Will he? Who knows? But Aziraphale's the kind of guy who'd 100% wear braces instead of suspenders because braces are more comfortable; he'd understand the significance. He might not have meant to start it, but he certainly didn't stop it, the little shit.
> 
> I don't know how to explain nonsexual arousal to allosexuals except that it's pretty much like what you feel for good food. You see the little sponge cake with strawberries and whipped cream, and you _want it so much._ You can practically taste it in your mouth when the saliva pools under your tongue. You aren't going to die if you don't have it, and you certainly don't want to fuck the cake. But you want it to the point that it's a physical urge, a craving. Now, imagine that kind of feeling, but for intimacy with a person. It isn't in the genitalia, it's mostly in the mind and the rest of it is in the heart, I think. Leave it to people who've spent significantly more time dancing around each other than with each other to add 2 and 2 and get 5, even if they're on the same wavelength now. Whatever. This was about the food.


End file.
